Devil Team
by anonymous skrub
Summary: [USCENTCOM REPORT] Due to increase in criminal and homegrown terrorist activity in recent years, we authorizing the activation of DISASTER, EPOCH, FRONTRUNNER, and GEARBOX squadrons in USSOCOM A/JSOC unit 1ST SFOD-D. DISASTER will handle East Coast; EPOCH handles Central/Mountain North; FRONTRUNNER handles West Coast/Alaska/Hawaii; GEARBOX has Central/Mountain South.
1. A New Beginning

**Rewrite: Hello, Motherfuckers!**

**This takes place in the present day era in New York City; all 5 boroughs. This is a description of a typical raid the team does. They are part of the 1st SFOD-D, but fight terrorism and gangs on the home front. When they reach 24, they're officially allowed on Delta operations in foreign lands.**

**AO: Bronx, NYC**

**MISSION: Take out extortion/slavery gang known as the "Hombres Supremo".**

**UNIT: Fireteam from D Troop, 1****st**** SFOD-D; call sign "Devil".**

**UNIT MEMBERS:**

**MSgt. Jordan Hall [TL]**

**SFC. Joshua Smith [ATL / JTAC / PILOT]**

**SPC. Johnathan Campbell [DESIGNATED MARKSMAN / MEDIC]**

**PFC. Gabrielle "Angie" Campbell [POINTMAN / DEMOLITIONS]**

**PFC. Alexa Campbell [SQUAD AUTOMATIC RIFLEMAN / HEAVY WEAPONS]**

**DATE: 03 / 22 / 2019**

**OPERATION: "RAVAGER"**

It was raining; was that really a surprise? It's March in NYC, for Christ's sake. In a rundown apartment building, somewhere in the slums and gang controlled territory of the Bronx, a small number of teens and young adults gathered. Three were on the roof; two were in a room two stories down. The window was open, and as the two peered through their instruments, it became clear what they were doing.

One, a young man, barely out of his teens, sat in a chair, behind a vertically faced table. On said table laid a long, sleek object roughly three feet, with dark grey cloth wrapped around it. He was Specialist Johnathan Campbell, code name "Poet".

He was currently peering through the eight-power thermal scope he had mounted on his rifle- an old fashioned, but updated version of the Vietnam-era M21 Sniper Weapon System. It was fashioned with a bipod near the muzzle, and on the muzzle was a sound suppressor, to avoid alerting hostiles and civilians alike. Propped against the table, you could see a spare rifle for close quarters combat: a Barret REC-7, which they had perfected in the years since its development.

He was dressed in a dark grey tactical hoodie, with the hood up, covering his upper face. A shemagh was visible, albeit colored dark green and it rested around his neck. Kevlar elbow pads were attached to the hoodie and underneath you could see an UnderArmor thermal shirt beneath a Kevlar ballistic vest. He was also wearing the dark NWU-style digicam cargo pants, also with Kevlar knee pads. Black, waterproof construction boots adorned his feet, and Oakley assault gloves were gripped his hand tightly. On top of the shirts he had a lightweight assault rig, fitted with six Remington 6.8mm 35-round magazines. Next to his M21, two extra 10-round magazines were stacked on top of each other.

His partner peered through a thermal spotting scope, which also gave wind speed &amp; direction, as well as elevation adjustments as it lazed the target. It was a girl around the same age as the sniper, dressed in similar clothing. She, on the other hand, did not possess a rifle of any kind. She was lugging the 7.62x51mm caliber M240B machine gun, with a paratrooper style drum magazine. This was PFC Alexa "Widower" Campbell.

Both had handgun holsters strapped to their thighs; albeit Poet's was on his right thigh, with easier reach for his right hand- his dominant one- while Widower had her holster strapped to her left thigh, for same reasons. Their team members, MSGT Jordan "Saturn" Hall, SFC Joshua "Blackjack" Smith, and PFC Gabrielle Angelica (Angie) "Venus" Campbell, were on the ground, waiting for them to clear the way for their entrance.

The room was dark- perfect for the similarly dressed operators to remain unseen. Now that I'm done explaining this shit, let's move onto something more exciting, i.e. Poet shooting some guy in the balls. Oops, spoiler.

Poet swept his scope to match the target on the roof of the warehouse-like building across the row of smaller houses. He flicked his thermal laser on and off, to show Widower he had confirmation of the target.

"Target is 587 yards away… Wind speed is full value, three miles per an hour, left to right… Elevation adjustment, plus 2.5 clicks… Execute," muttered Widower. Poet stopped breathing for the whole 27 seconds, and broke the 6 pound trigger. A single brass casing ejected from the rifle, and he watched- almost in slow motion- as the round left the suppressed muzzle with an audible _pssh-hiss _and spiraled towards the sentry. It hit the man dead center of his chest, leaving a gaping hole in his spine. He fell forward, and landed at the same time thunder struck.

"One down, six to go…" Poet muttered, letting a small smirk grace his face. Widower hummed, before giving him his next target.

"Target is 539 yards away… wind speed, half value, and five miles per an hour…" As she gave statistics, Poet adjusted his scope and rifle accordingly. Finally, the command came, "… Execute." Another pull, another jerk, another sound, another dead body- it went on like this for the next five targets as well.

"Saturn," Poet spoke into his mic, "all clear on the roof." After a brief silence, his team leader replied, "Solid copy. Drop your rifle in the truck and get here, ASAP." Poet grabbed his REC-7, slinging it over his shoulder, before grabbing the rifle case and putting his M21 in it. "Gotcha, Bossman, Widower and Poet are oscar mike," Poet muttered. He unslung his REC-7, pulled the bolt back, and flicked it from SAFE to SEMIAUTOMATIC. He looked at his partner, asking the unspoken question. She grabbed her gun and nodded.

Poet opened the door and silently moved towards the stairs, going to the roof. He kept his rifle raised, looking through his night vision goggles. He tightened his grip on the foregrip he had and the trigger handle. His NV laser swept hallways and doors, Widower on his six.

Eventually they reached the roof, where their exfil was prepared. Two inconspicuous ropes dangled off the side, away from windows. They hooked up their D-Rings and steadily walked down the side of the building. As they reached ground, they quickly unhooked and dashed across the empty street into an alley. They slowed down as they made their way into the dark, narrow passage, finding their way through the alley with the ease of natural New Yorkers.

Halfway to the RV point, they stopped, and behind a large collection of empty "dumpsters", which were actually painted wooden planks put together very well, was a GMC Yukon XL- black, of course. Poet put his M21 in the generous trunk space, as well as the extra magazines. He also grabbed his assault pack, which contained a few things like emergency IVs, buddy transfusion packs, MREs, and some more medical stuff. He closed and locked the car, before he and Widower raced against the forces of time to reach the objective.

The time was 0238.

Poet led the way, eyes sweeping vigilantly for any threats. Suddenly he dropped to a knee and held up a clenched fist. He and Widower hid behind a narrow pile of trash and, put bluntly, shit. Normally the close proximity would cause the hormone-plagued teens to go a little wonky, but they had learned to control their stupid hormonal impulses on missions.

A small group of drunken gang members and a few- who the two assumed to be- prostitutes made their way out of a seemingly trashed door, of a similarly seemingly trashed establishment. They hiccupped and giggled, with firearms visible on the gangsters. However, these men and women were not their targets- yet. As soon as they passed, they double timed as silently as possible to the RV point.

They made it at 0315.

Blackjack greeted them first, "What took you motherfuckers so long?" he growled. Poet glared back, growling, "I'm sorry, I had to wait for Chuck Norris to finish fucking Rachel Maddow before I could move from behind a pile of trash and shit." Saturn told them bluntly- "Shut the fuck up, dickwad 1 and 2." He turned back towards a toppled in wall. "We have a job to do."

The two other males backed off, each clutching their weapons in a death grip. The three remaining members rolled their eyes, while two thought, _'Boys.' _I'll let you guess who they are.

Saturn gestured for Venus to lead them in. She nodded, raising her REC-7 before stepping through the hole in the wall. Blackjack followed her in, and coming after him was Widower, Poet, and finally Saturn.

The warehouse seemed almost empty. There were a few scattered guards on the upper catwalks, some of the gangsters were playing cards near the center of the room, and a few over near some cargo crates, and what appeared to be…

"Slaves…" muttered Venus. "Hostages, boss." Saturn nodded, "I see'em. Alright, BJ, you and Widower take out the power. I see it over there." He pointed to the right-side in their patch of darkness, where a control console and generator could be seen. "Poet, Venus, on the blackout, get on the catwalks and wipe those guys out," Saturn finished. The team nodded, splitting up. Poet and Angie headed near a stair case while Widower and Blackjack treaded towards the power generator.

Blackjack provided cover while Widower dashed over and cut a few wires, resulting in the loss of power in the building- more importantly, the loss of light. Hoods were thrown off long ago, revealing the black IBH helmets, with mounted NVGs and NVG racks.

Blackjack and Widower shot and killed two guards near them, one of which who stood up, exclaiming, "What the fu-?!" before being shot in the chest three times.

Venus and Poet raced up the stairs, the guards apparently panicking too much to hear them. One gangster turned towards his left, leaving his back to the deadly twins. "Hey, Pablo, maybe it the st-," never finishing as his head exploded, brains and blood spilling all over his soon-to-be-former buddy, Pablo.

"_DIOS MÍO!_" Pablo exclaimed, screaming afterwards, "_Muere, diablo engendro!_" He sprayed off three rounds from an AR-15 before being cut down by eight 6.8mm rounds.

**(Translation: "OH MY GOD!" "DIE, DEVIL SPAWN!")**

Poet continued going down the catwalk, shooting the two remaining guards. Venus turned to face the opposite catwalk, and fired at the slavers on that one. However, she couldn't kill them all at once, which meant…

"WE'RE COMPROMISED!" shouted Venus, blowing away two more gang members, before ducking to avoid a wild spray of gunfire from another. The gunfire was heard all over the neighborhood. Saturn, who with Widower and Blackjack, was killing hostiles as they ran out of cover quite stupidly, questioned, "WHAT ABOUT THE HVT?!"

Poet, after loading a fresh magazine, spotted him, exclaiming, "I GOT THE HVT! TAKING THE SHOT!" He aimed carefully, and let loose a burst of six rounds. He nailed a guard following him, and busted his left knee right open. "TARGET DISABLED!" reported Poet, before taking out a hostile with an AK-74. He threw a frag at the HVT, and before it detonated, he heard the man's final scream- a scream of sheer terror and horror.

He saw the two hostages- one girl around his age, and a younger one- shaking and crying with all the gunfire. "BOSS," he yelled, "THE HOSTAGES!" Saturn fell on his back and rolled onto his stomach to avoid a burst right where his head was, and loaded a fresh magazine before taking out the offensive bastard. "SECURE THEM, I'M PINNED RIGHT NOW!" he shouted back, barely audible even on the radio over the din of gunfire.

Poet grit his teeth, and then saw headlights outside. It was now or never. "MOVING, COVER ME!" he shouted, hopping off the catwalk three feet to a cargo crate below, then rolling off that and taking cover behind it. "COVERING FIRE!" he heard Venus yell, as Widower let loose a long, 30-round burst from her machine gun, devastating a number of enemy shooters and sending more diving for cover from the large bullets. Poet sprinted, vaulted, and slid behind various objects as cover. He made his way over to the cage, turning and firing a quick burst to keep the gangsters' heads down. He turned back.

"HEY! MISS!" he screamed over the gunfire. The younger girl started crying harder, but the older one turned around. She cringed and whimpered, but stared him in the eye. Poet raised his rifle and gestured with his offhand. "I'M GONNA NEED YOU TO STAND BACK!" he shouted. When she didn't move he started pointing, screaming, "BACK! BACK! MOVE BACK! I'M GONNA SHOOT THE LOCK!" Finally she understood, as she scrambled her young charge and herself towards the back. Poet jammed his muzzle against the lock and did a double tap, then smashed the lock with his rifle's stock. He swung the door open.

"LET'S GO!" he hollered, waving out. He turned and fired once more, as more fire concentrated on him. The teenage girl picked up the toddler and ran for all it was worth, Poet shielding them by shuffle shooting. As they reached the hole, a swarm of hostile troops entered the building. "DEVIL, PULL OUT!" shouted Saturn, covering the retreat of Venus and Widower. Blackjack moved to cover the exit as Poet covered Saturn.

As they regrouped and ran like hell, shots ricocheted all around them. "VENUS, GET THE CIVIS TO THE EXTRACT VEHICLE!" Saturn yelled, slapping Poet on the shoulder. The two did a 180 and dropped to a knee, firing back at the hostile reinforcements. Venus lead the way to the Yukon, opening up the rear doors for the hostages and slipping into the driver seat. Widower slipped into the passenger seat and blasted away the windshield. She turned around and yelled, "STAY DOWN!" to the two young girls. They got behind the front seats and in front of the rear seats. Blackjack hopped into the third row, as he ejected the trunk door.

Back with Poet and Saturn, the two fought tooth and nail against the onslaught they were facing. Poet ejected another magazine, and reloaded. Headlights burned his back, and a M240B lit up the alley. "LET'S GO!" shouted Widower, as Venus shot her Glock 18 as she kept one hand on the wheel.

"LAST MAG!" Poet reported, and caught two extras as Venus tossed them out the window- literally. Saturn hopped in the third row with Blackjack, and Poet secured himself in the trunk. Venus aggressively reversed her way into a street, and took off. "PURSUIT VEHICLES!" Poet yelled. Firing at the fleeing truck, the pursuers rapidly gained ground until…

"BLACK, PASS THE 203!" Poet requested, firing and apparently nailed the driver of a trailing F150, as it veered out of control and slammed into an apartment building. A grenade launcher appeared next to Poet's head, as well as a belt of HE and smoke rounds. He loaded a high explosive round, and took aim at the lead vehicle. He was vaguely aware of the rifles firing near his head, and then fired.

The muffled _WHUMP _shook the truck, and the explosive slowly sailed until it collided with the pickup in a burst of flame and steel. The truck flew in the air, and landed on another. However, more pursuers joined in. "VENUS, GET US ON THE HIGHWAY!" Saturn yelled, as she made a hard left and got on the ramp leading to the BQE- Route 278.

The time was 0403.

They drove straight through Manhattan and over a bridge into Queens. Some pursuers dropped off, but more persistent ones stayed. "HARD TURN AHEAD!" Venus shouted, prompting Poet to load a smoke round, and fire it through the windshield. Due to the smoke, vehicles either smashed into the rail guards or flew off the highway into the East River.

"RIDE'S HERE!" Saturn shouted, as an MH-60 Blackhawk flew overhead. "Devil, this is Owl 8-2, SPIE rig incoming," reported the pilot. Widowers went through the sunroof onto the roof of the truck. "GO!" Saturn shouted to the two former captives, as the older one gave the younger one up to Widower, before heaving herself up.

"I need two extra D-Ring sets up here!" exclaimed Widower. Poet cursed, rifling through his pack for some. He found one; luckily, Blackjack had another, as well. He tossed it at Poet, who got out of the trunk door frame and tossed them onto the roof, almost falling off when rounds whizzed by his head. He returned fire with another HE round, but he was dry now.

"203's out!" he growled, grabbing his rifle again. Blackjack slapped the seat twice, and a few seconds later so did Saturn.

"Time to go, bro!" Venus shouted. Poet shot a thumbs-up, as he climbed out the trunk and onto the roof, bringing his M21 and the empty 203 with him. Hey, why waste taxpayers' dollars, amirite? He saw her jam a crowbar in the wheel to keep it steady. They quickly hooked up, the civis looking kinda sick. He felt bad- first time is always the worst.

"WIDOWER, DUMP THE C4!" Saturn yelled. Widower dropped a ruck, full of C4, into the car. "8-2, GET US THE HELL OUT OF DODGE!" Saturn demanded, as the pursuers caught up with the slowing vehicle. "We are clear, ladies and gents!" the pilot jovially exclaimed, as the team was lifted from the roof of the almost stopped truck.

"Blow it," Saturn grinned, as the pursuit vehicles clustered around the truck. Widower grinned as well, and muttered, "Ka-boom, motherfuckers." She clicked the detonator, and the truck, and surrounding ones, exploded.

"Devil, patching you through to HQ at Floyd Bennet," 8-2's pilot said. After a few minutes of silence, a gravelly voice broke through, grunting, "Report." Poet raised his mic to his mouth, saying, "Devils are safe, no WIAs, two hostages rescued, and the sexist gang has been ravaged, Saint Pete." He grinned at the end, as the crew chiefs hoisted them up into the crew bay. He heard a chuckle on the other end, and "Saint Pete" said, "Chalk up another win, Devil. Operation 'Ravager' is done. Come back home for coffee, cake, and hero worship. HQ out."

Venus grinned as she sat down and buckled up, muttering, "What I need now, is a nap." She promptly fell asleep on her father-figure's shoulder. Saturn rolled his eyes; this was the norm for the 37 year old senior noncom. Poet smiled, pulling off his NVGs and helmet. He gestured at the two hostages, "Hey, you two," they looked up, "we're gettin' ya checked out at FBA. We got good docs and nurses who'll patch ya right up," he smiled.

The older girl nodded, introducing herself and the tike as well, "My name's Johanna Thompson, call me Joey. This is my sister, Charlie. But what's FBA?" Her wide blue eyes shone with curiosity. John smirked, pulling down his shemagh, dramatically exclaiming, "Floyd Bennet Airbase." She frowned, "But that's been closed for years!" she argued. "Not anymore," John smirked larger, if possible. Joey kept frowning until John gestured to look outside. She gasped.

Beyond the old ruins of Floyd Bennet, in the tall trees and grasses, another compound was built. Guard towers, electric fences, road blocks, and the whole shebang. The pilot guided the helo towards an opening hangar in the ground, where they descended 100 feet or so before landing. The team unbuckled, and John took Joey by the shoulder, and wildly gestured about.

"Welcome to Floyd Bennet Airbase, Ms. Thompson," John exclaimed, turning towards her with a mischievous glint in his eye, "…and welcome to the home of Disaster Squadron, First Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta."

**AN: Well writing this in… Roughly, 4-5 hours was fun. This was seriously fun to write. I got to rewrite that shoddy first chapter, and this looks better. Also did something special with Floyd Bennet, kinda outta GI Joe: Rise of the Cobra. Made a few other references I forget, but hey, if you catch'em, great!... Gotta catch'em all!... Damn you, Pokemon.**


	2. Welcome and Set Sail

**Chapter 2: The Crew**

**[Floyd Bennet AFB**

**Brooklyn, New York**

**Operational Command of East Coast D Squadron, call sign "Disaster".]**

The powerful rotor-wash from the helicopter finally died down, and Joey's eyes widened as she took in the scene in front of her. A maintenance crew rushed the helicopter, refueling and restocking supplies onboard. A training area was in a huge space near the corner of the complex, with a climbing wall, obstacle course, shooting range (10, 50, 100, 250, 500, 750, 1000 meters, helpfully supplied by Johnny), and a running track. A few soldiers, barely older than 14, ran along in cadence, their song reaching her ears.

"C-130 rolling down the strip!"

"C-130 rolling down the strip!"

"Disaster Squadron's gonna take a lil trip!"

"Disaster Squadron's gonna take a lil trip!"

The team got off the helo, and started making a beeline for a long corridor in the wall of the cliff. One of the girls nudged her, smiling reassuringly. She gestured to follow them, and Joey picked up a still wide-eyed Kathy and hurried to catch up to the seasoned operators.

"Hey Alexa," the older man called over his shoulder, "you can take'em to the showers and get them some new clothes. John'n'I'll check in with the good colonel," he finished, smirking as Johnny groaned before heading into the door labeled "**EQUIPMENT LOCKERS, A-C**" to stow his gear, followed by the other girl and Alexa.

"Hey, uhh..." Joey awkwardly started, as the three stripped of gear and clothing, as she covered Kathy's eyes, "what should I, uhh... be doing?" Alexa peered at her through a jumble of discarded combat gear and weapons, before reaching into her locker and tossing Joey a few towels, some extra clothes for her, and started to lead her down the hallway. Joey finally uncovered a pouting Kathy's eyes, who looked around before burying her face in her sister's elbow.

Alexa looked over and smiled, still dressed in her UnderArmor shirt, cargo pants and 5.11 tacboots, with her pistol holster still strapped securely around her thigh. She led Joey to a room marked "**DC4YKs**", where she was bombarded by the noise of laughing children and chastising adults.

"Hey, Eros!" Alexa called, gesturing for an unseen figure to come over. An African American man in a wheelchair rolled over, holding a squirming, giggling Hispanic girl. He smiled at Alexa, before releasing his "captive", who immediately rushed over to a group of children attempting to build a castle with LEGOs.

"Howdy, miss C," he grinned, before taking in the sight of a shocked pair of siblings. He tipped his head slightly, still smiling softly. "Hello there, miss and little miss," Kathy peered at him from behind the arm of Joey, curiously, eyeing him as he continued, "my name's Justin, but you can call me Eros," his eyes got a little sad here, "former medic and technical specialist of Devil team."

Alexa placed her hand on his shoulder, eyes turning stormy.

"Fucking Detrop," she muttered, eyes flashing angrily as she uttered the name. A soft whimper brought her out of it. Kathy was watching with fearful eyes, trying to bury herself further in Joey's clothes. Justin's eyes softened.

"Hey there, lil girl," he whispered, smiling a bit. Didn't quite reach his eyes.

She peeked at him, waving a bit. He chuckled, and asked, "You want anything? I can go get it for ya." Kathy came out of her clothes-shell, and whispered, "Miwk and cookie?" Justin nodded, and rolled into a small kitchen/storage area.

A small boy wandered over, looking at the sisters curiously. He poked Joey's leg to get her attention, and smiled up at her and Kathy, who peered down at this mysterious cherub.

"Hi!" the boy beamed, exposing a few holes in his mouth where teeth had fallen out- or been knocked out.

Kathy offered a small wave from her- um? - nest, and Joey gave a tight smile. The boy started bouncing around, obviously on a sugar high. We all know how wonderful that is, don't we? Back to the story, anyw- OH SHIT THE FOURTH WALL!

**[CURRENTLY UNDER MAINTENANCE AND MEMORY DELETION]**

The little boy fired away questions, ranging from things like, "Where are you from?" to "What is your favorite Thomas train?" to even, "Why are you two so pretty?" Kathy stared at him weirdly. Luckily, Justin came back with her snack... dinner... who knows.

"Here ya go, miss," Justin smiled, handing Kathy a plate of cookies and box of chocolate milk. Kathy gestured to be put down, grabbed the food, and sat at a nearby table, munching happily. Soon other kids began asking for cookies and milk from the various adults and teens walking around. Justin sighed sadly.

"Alexa, you might wanna get her a change of clothes and shit, and... y'know..." Justin trailed off, making a strange gesture. Alexa nodded, wrapped an arm around her, and led her away from the eager munchkins. As they headed down the hall, Alexa waved at a few people, fist bumped an older guy, and dragged a bewildered Joey down a hallway labeled, "**SHOWERS**".

She gestured for her to step in a stall, and offered to hold the stuff she had given her while she washed up. As the warm water ran over her, Joey contemplated life and the universe and that good stuff. Mostly, said something along the lines of, "What the actual fuck just happened within 5 hours?" Insert dumb white girl Tumblr post here.

After she finished, she discovered Alexa also coming out as well, and, well, she was curious, okay!? She may have... sneaked a peek... maybe... Okay, she did, don't judge!

She tried to cover up her blush by turning away and drying off slowly as possible, which led to her next thought. "What if she's looking at ME?" Sure enough, she turned, only to be face-to-face with a smirking Alexa, holding a pair of undergarments. Joey blushed bright red and hastily threw the clothes on. She felt eyes on her the entire time, causing her to shiver.

As she finished, Alexa once again grabbed her, leading her to a room labeled "**C2 AND C.O.**". They brushed past a bunch of analysts and technicians, all seeming older and middle aged. As the two girls stepped through a door, they saw Johnny, the older team leader, and a middle aged man going grey behind a desk smoking a pipe.

Johnny shot a grin and thumbs up, whereas the TL merely nodded. Alexa moved beside her brother, giving an indiscreet wink. Joey gulped and prayed to God she wasn't blushing. Damn hormones.

The old man looked her up and down, seeming to analyze her. He turned to Johnny, grunting, "Seems you were right, Poet. She's got a brawler's build." He glanced at Johnny/Poet, smirking, "I taught you well." Johnny grinned and gave a low, "Hooah."

He turned to her, opening a profile. "Johanna 'Joey' Thompson, parents Erwin Thompson and Regina Anne Holland-Thompson, sibling Katherine 'Kathy' Thompson. Of Queens, New York, disappeared several weeks ago with your sister and your parents found dead. Formerly Marine Corps JROTC rifle team sharpshooter-" Here he was interrupted by Johnny, who mumbled something about shitty air rifles and jarheads. The obvious boss guy growled slightly, and continued, "- as well as a former shooter for the Gallagher crew, and participated in multiple armed robberies and hold ups." Her throat tightened, and she involuntarily clenched her fists. He looked up at her, allowing view to the eagle on his BDUs and "Peterson" on his name tab.

"I'm offering you a once-in-a-lifetime chance here, miss," he spoke lowly, eyes getting a new spark to them. "You can either let us turn you in and have your sister go into foster care," he trailed off, letting it sink in, "or, you can join my unit here, and do something. Your sister can live here with the rest of the kids." The idea overwhelmed her. The next statement convinced her almost immediately, "You'll get paid and I head there's a spot on Devil here." Alexa glared as if saying, Decline and I'll kill you. Johnny, being his stupid ass self, nodded quickly, and then wobbled a bit due to self-induced dizziness. The team leader nodded, a small smile coming to his face.

She turned back to the colonel, and nodded her acceptance, not trusting her voice. He smirked, turning to Johnny. "Corporal," he rumbled, "get this miserable excuse of an operator out my Goddamn office and get her squared away, ASAP." Johnny snapped to attention, saluted, and did an about face. "PRIVATE," he bellowed, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU STANDING AROUND FOR!? GET YOUR ASS MOVING, GO!" He shoved her out the door, yelling behind her the whole way back to the main deck.

"HEY, DISASTER," he yelled, "WE GOT AN FNG HERE!" The entire compound erupted into whoops and hollers, and Alexa nudged her, smirking. "Welcome to Hell," she simply stated. Joey gulped, before a hand interlaced its fingers with hers. She glanced at Alexa in shock, but she simply squeezed reassuringly.

Johnny snapped her back to reality, tossing her an HK416 rifle. "Hey newbie," he called, "time to begin training. Disaster Squadron style."

**[LINE BREAK]**

As Joey collapsed onto her bunk in exhaustion, she let a small smile out. She finished today. Finished the whole freaking 10 month course. As she drifted to sleep, someone draped her covers over her and whispered, "Welcome to the team, Dancer." That person gently kissed her sweaty head before moving, and Alexa knew Joey knew exactly who did that.

**[THE NEXT DAY, NOON]**

**WEATHER: FIERCE HURRICANE HITTING NYC AND SURROUNDING AREA**

**WARNING: ALL SHIPS AND AIRCRAFT RETURN TO PORT AND LAND IMMEDIATELY**

**cgc&amp;c: LOST CONTACT WITH CARGO SHIP ECHO GOLF PAPA NINER TWO ONE [1321]**

**lbvast6j: DISPATCHING TEAM TO INVESTIGATE [1335]**

**lbvast6: TEAM UNDER FIRE, REQUESTING SUPPORT FROM FBA [1402]**

**fbasfodd: ACKNOWLEDGED LBVA, DEVIL INBOUND [1410]**

**fbasfodd: DEVIL ETA 3 MIKES [1421]**

**fbasfodd: DEVIL ON SCENE [1424]**

"- we got Toadboys lost and in need of a rescue, let's move Devil!" Joey grabbed her kit, a HK MP5 (with bonus goodies like IR/NV laser, EoTech 552 optics, fore grip, taclight, and flash hider), and the only good weapon Colt ever made, the M1911. The clothes the team was wearing was similar: Kevlar IBHs, light assault vests, regular knee and elbow pads, and waterproof clothes in the form of a dark blue combat hoodie and black cargo pants, as well as combat boots.

The team assembled on a MH-6J Little Bird, and took off. The rain was horrendous- they wore their hoods the whole way there.

"30 seconds," the pilot said. A dark shape formed in the rain, and a barely lit ship appeared. "Sure you don't want something bigger than that crappy 9mm, Dancer?" Poet asked, patting his own 6.8mm REC-7. Dancer grinned, "Sweet to ask, but I still do the kill house better than you." Poet gave an indecent yelp, retorting, "I'm a marksman! Not a CQB guy! That's your job!"

"Oh, will you two SHUT UP?" groaned Black. The two shared a glance before Poet said, "Ja, mein Fürher." Joey face palmed and said, complete with hand action, "Puerre." (Boy) The two stared at each other in complete seriousness before cracking up. Pilots, being the mood killers they are, stated, "10 seconds."

"Alright Devil, lock, load, green light, let's go!" Saturn hopped off onto the deck, followed closely by the rest of the team. They had gotten off near the stern of the ship, and Blackjack immediately slipped and fell, much to the amusement of the Campbell twins. He growled and shot back up.

"Keep an eye peeled, Devil," Saturn announced. "Thermals on, now." The team slipped thermal goggles over their already goggled eyes, and the deck was thrown into a grey, black, and white haze. They flicked on their lasers, and white beams shone on the various surfaces of the ship.

As they passed a small stern watch/control center, Saturn halted them. The glass was blown in and jagged, obviously pierced by bullets. Bloody bodies lay strewn throughout the cabin, handguns and small PDWs next to them.

"Keep moving, guys," Saturn muttered. He gestured for Widower and Black to take a MG position on an upper catwalk, and the two dashed off. "Let us know if you see anything," he added, and the two answered with a soft, "Hooah."

The remaining 4 operators moved across the cargo deck, watching for any sign of hostiles or friendlies. "Boss," Poet said, "blood trails and shell casings." He pointed to a still slightly warm smeared blood trail and a few hot casings left on the path. "Leading to the crew quarters and engine room," Venus added, raising her rifle slightly.

"Alright, Poet, Venus, che-" Saturn was cut off as a wave slammed into the ship, sending the operators and cargo slipping and falling. "Holy shiiiit!" exclaimed Poet, managing to roll to the side just before a container slid by him and vaulted into the sea.

The ship tilted this way and that, and the two on the catwalk were faring only slightly better. They at least clipped onto the railing. "Jesus Christ, Black, you let out too much line," Widower grunted, hoisting the rifleman back up to their position. He scowled beneath his mask, and muttered a quiet, "STFU."

Meanwhile back on the deck, Poet managed to slip himself to the staircase, and reached out and dragged Dancer as she got close enough. He grunted as he reached out again to grasp Saturn's outstretched hand. Venus didn't need any help; she penguin slid right into Poet, almost knocking him down.

"Get inside," Saturn gasped, pulling off his wet balaclava. The others followed the suit, charging up the stairs and into the interior of the cargo ship. Once inside, Poet immediately froze- no, not from the cold- and made a choking sound.

Saturn looked over, "What's the matter?" Poet only continued staring in one direction. Saturn turned and stiffened. Venus gasped.

Dancer looked and retched right there. A roughly 16 year old boy in a diver suit with a combat rig lay against the wall- what was left of him. His eyes had been gouged out, his lower jaw ripped off. His left arm and both legs had been violently hacked off, and dried blood caked the walls and floor. His genitals had also been abused, and his anus was wide and bleeding, showing signs of rape.

Poet and Venus cleared a crew quarters and draped a blanket over the body, after Saturn retrieved his dog tags. Venus grasped Dancer's shoulder, uttering a soft, "Let's go." She finally turned away and pulled rear security. The body shifted under the blanket and a gurgling sound was heard under the blanket, followed by an unholy wail and the silence.

Saturn tried to reach the SEALs on all channels, and finally got static and a distress signal on repeat on one. "SEA-our-fatali-ssistence!" Poet got on and attempted contact. "SEAL team, this is Devil team, out of Floyd Bennet AFB, what is your location and status, over?" After 5 minutes of holding near the cargo bay stairwell, a distressed voice and gunfire could be heard.

"DEVIL, THIS IS PONTUS 2-3, WE ARE AT THE ENGINES, UNDER HEAVY FIRE, MULTIPLE FATALITIES AND CAUSALTIES, NEED IMME- TOM, GET DOWN!" The transmission broke up and Poet tried again in vain. He looked at Saturn, asking the obvious.

"Overwatch, anything not with us, shoot to kill," Saturn growled. "Overwatch copies your last, Devil Lead, shoot to kill," Blackjack responded, complete with an audio of Widower cleaning out and reloading a belt for her 240B.

"Devil," Poet stated, taking point, "on me." Together, they descended into what can be described as Hell.

Bodies littered the floor, bullet holes in portholes and walls, blood was everywhere. Poet stormed on, never breaking stride even while checking corners and bodies. He nudged one, and then stepped on him twice, and as Venus passed, she double tapped his head with her rifle.

Poet suddenly halted, and said, "Pull security on me." The team formed a 240 degree perimeter while Poet dropped and checked a body with a SEAL patch on her sleeve. She weakly moved her head, blood leaking from her mouth. Poet busted out a flashlight and removed his thermals, shining it from a Velcro patch on his IBH.

"Keep still," he ordered, and the girl didn't seem to argue. He removed her blowout kit from her right thigh pouch, and grabbed her dog tags. "B pos..." he muttered, rolling up his own sleeve. He then produced a bag of something, which reacted in the SEAL coughing up blood and spewing mucus and snot, clearing her airways. She breathed in much more clearly, and Poet nodded.

He then searched her for wounds, and found three. Two in her chest, and one in her shin. He grimaced, as he applied plastic wrap to a wound on her left lung and wrapped it in bandages. Next, he applied a germ killer to her second chest wound- this one in her stomach area- and applied a direct pressure bandage, and then wrapped that, too.

He winced as he came to the shin. He looked at the team, stating, "You guys go, I'll handle this." Saturn reluctantly nodded, and the trio dashed off. "Now," Poet muttered, as he grabbed two wooden AKs lying down, disassembled them, and use the wood as a splint, "the fun part." The girl grimaced as she knew what would come next. He lifted the leg, and she gave a short scream of pain.

He used a small crate as an elevation unit, and prepared a buddy transfusion. He smiled crookedly at the girl, "You, miss," he began, as he drew a needle and blood bag out, "are very lucky I'm an OPOS." She gave a weak smile, as the blood he took entered her circulatory system once again and brought a small bit of life back.

Holding the blood bag in one hand, Poet got on the radio with the other. "Owl 4-1," he began, "I have a MEDEVAC ready; get FBAFBC2 to chop us off a 60 or 47, ASAP."

**[Back with the trio]**

As the Delta operators dashed through the ship, right under the left engine turbine, several hostiles appeared and opened fire. "Cover!" Saturn yelled, sliding behind a console. Venus dove behind a stack of spare part crates. Dancer hunkered down to the console adjacent to Saturn.

Green tracers lit up the semi-dark room, and Dancer stuck her head and gun out to return fire. She took aim at a guy holding a Russian SKS rifle that was pinning down Venus, and let loose two bursts. The MP5 spewed lead and through her thermal optics she saw a secondary heat source appear. As she turned to the main group, she suddenly jerked back.

"Fuck!" she exclaimed, throwing up her thermal goggles, "Can't see shit in those!" Venus just hummed in agreement; hers already back in her pack.

Saturn popped up and fired four rounds on semiautomatic before ducking back down. Venus then strayed out of cover and let loose with a dozen or so rounds. Three men fell before her. Soon, more began to pour in, and they were getting overwhelmed.

"Ah, fuck it," Saturn exclaimed. "Frag out!" The small green sphere sailed through the air, the safety pin and primer already gone. It landed it the midst of a group of hostiles, one of which screamed before the grenade tore them to shreds. Dancer popped up again and took advantage of the confusion, tossing her own frag grenade past a large stack of boxes the still unidentified group of hostiles was using as cover.

The boxes flew outwards, sending chunks of flesh and bone and shrapnel this way and that. Dancer had a feral grin; this was getting to be fun. Then a round slammed into her helmet and she fell to the ground in pain and shock.

"DANCER!" her call sign reverberated through her skull, "YOU OKAY!?" She winced and curled up slightly. "Ugh, too loud," she murmured. Venus dashed over, and popped off several rounds before kneeling next to her.

"You alright!?" she asked, firing off several more rounds, the brass ejecting toward the turbine. Dancer winced as she sat up, but grabbed her MP5 again and nodded.

"Yeah," she whispered, then tried again, "Yeah," she stated with more confidence, "I'm good to go." Venus ejected her mag and slipped it into her dump pouch before slamming a new one home.

"Good!" she exclaimed, pointing that awaya, continuing, "'Cuz we need your gun, NOW!" Sure enough, more hostiles were pouring through the door. Dancer grew frustrated, and let loose a magazine on full automatic. About 8 hostiles dropped dead, the others starting to fall back.

Poet, who dropped off his charge on the MEDEVAC bird, came out of NOWHERE- and I mean, NOWHERE- and dropped the retreating figures with an evidently stolen PKM machine gun. He went full Rambo, just letting loose and laughing like a maniac.

When the barrel turned red and started smoking, he dropped it and unslung his rifle. He was still smiling, albeit less crazily and more boyishly. Dancer thought it suited him better. Though, she had to admit- not to Widower- he was kinda hot all crazy-like... Mental slap.

"Wait a minute," Venus said, "aren't they heading to the engine room... to the SEALs?" A few seconds passed before they dashed through the halls and the rear flank of the enemy vanguard. Up ahead they saw a man frantically reporting to an older man, who turned and eyes widened. Poet put a round in his face, and then put three more in the subordinate.

The enemy, who was evidently gaining the upper hand, seemed confused. A few kept firing at the SEALs, who were strangely quiet, and a few others paused and turned around. Dancer rolled in a flashbang before leaning back behind the door. A few confused then frantic shouts called out before a deafening explosion of the stun grenade came to full effect. Devil charged in, Poet and Dancer on the right, Saturn and Venus on the left.

Dancer popped off a few rounds at two closely huddled men, evidently a machine gunner and feeder duo, and tried to shoot at a charging shooter with a bayonet... only to find her gun was empty. Go figure.

He was coming closer: 30, 20, 10 feet... Dancer quickly drew her sidearm, cocking the hammer and pulling the slide back quickly, and fired one round at his sternum. The bullet pierced the man's chest, and left a gaping hole in his back. She put two more into his chest as he dropped.

His eyes widened with shock and hers with fear. He looked at her slowly, and then fell face first to the deck. She stared at his dead body for a while before someone shook her.

Poet screamed in her ear, "GET OUTTA THE LINE OF FIRE!" She woke up, clumsily sprinting behind the seasoned teen, putting a new magazine in her submachine gun. As she slid the slide back to chamber a round, she came unto a scene of horror.

The SEALs were putting things lightly in their sitrep. Numerous SEALs sat or lay down missing limbs, eyes, ears; one girl was even missing both breasts. There was so much blood she and Poet couldn't tell who was dead or dying or just had minor injuries. One boy held his rifle across his sternum as his buddy futilely tried to put his intestines back inside a gaping chest wound.

Saturn and Venus came in opposite of the other two, and Saturn choked back a sob. Sure, he had been to Iraq, the 'Stan, and others, seen guys wounded horribly or blown apart, but this... they were KIDS, for Christ's sake. He swallowed the lump in his throat and started giving his team orders.

"Venus, Dancer, with me on security. Poet," he glanced around, "do whatcha can." The boy, normally excited and jubilant, nodded solemnly, and started working up a storm. Black, red, and yellow tags appeared on vests, tourniquets and bandages on wounds, IVs in blood vessels. A SEAL lay next to Venus, his left hand a gory mess of sharp bone edges and nerves and skin. They fired into the seemingly endless hordes of hostiles surrounding them.

"All my fault," he kept muttering, "all my goddamn fault..." He was crying as he slowly reloaded his M4A1 rifle with only one hand, the stump of the other wiping his face. Venus recognized the voice as the one on the radio, and felt dread prick her. "Boss," she called across the war torn engine room, "Black and Wid!" Saturn turned towards her, eyes wide.

"Overwatch, report!" Saturn yelled into his radio. When only silence was heard, he tried again. "Overwatch, come in, dammit!" Saturn felt cold fear settle in his stomach- he probably just lost two of his kids. However, he felt relief when Widower responded, "We're clear, and brought some friends. Prepare for evac. We got a team of PJs to help, too."

Saturn grinned, and resumed putting rounds down range. As high caliber rounds slammed around him, he tried to suppress the shooters, but found that he couldn't. "Pinned," he yelled, and two wounded SEALs with him just curled up and shook.

Poet was desperately trying to save the lives of the wounded SEALs, rushing to and fro. They all needed top-notch hospital care, and all he had was a few bandages and tourniquets, now empty IV bags, and his rapidly depleting blood. His eyes felt heavy, and he found himself passing out for a few minutes at a time.

He keyed his mic, "Hey, I need either a hospital or MEDEVAC, YESTERDAY!" He turned to a girl who had pink, banana-scented liquid leaking from her ears and nose. "Brain trauma," he muttered, cursing under his breath.

Dancer was standing behind a support beam, bullets ricocheting and pinging all around her. She leaned out, and put a burst into a man who decided to stand straight up, for some reason.

She failed to recognize the one charging her with a bayonet to her left. She turned and she felt Death's chill in her body once again, before the wall next to them exploded. Luckily it was out of range of throwing shrapnel to the SEALs. Dancer, not so much.

The man in front of her had his head sliced clear off by a jagged piece of metal. Dancer took a few minor wounds to the arms and legs, but a huge piece pierced her side and exited the other, blood soaking her uniform. A clear liquid also mixed with her blood, and she realized her bladder was wounded as well.

As the pain made her fall to her knees, she saw an AH-64 Apache through the hole, and a V-22 VTOL come in to land in range of the hole. Blurs of people rushed out and dragged in more blurs, and she was vaguely aware that one blur was coming towards her.

She felt small hands push her onto her back and the gross smell of feces and vomit caused her to sneeze and cough up snot, mucus, and blood. Her airways clear, the blur dressed her wounds and made a whimpering noise at the shrapnel in her torso.

Enough focus returned to her so she could make out... "Alexa?" she gasped weakly, her left hand trying to touch her face. Alexa grasped her hand, squeezing it tightly. "Stay with me here, Joey, just stay with me," she pleaded, tears pricking her eyes.

Poet slid over, sighing, and yelled for a stretcher. When an AFSOC PJ ran over with one, his eyes widened. Poet nodded, gently lifting Dancer from her legs whilst Alexa grabbed her upper body, and together they laid her down on the stretcher. Poet secured her, and grabbed one end while Alexa got the other, and they rushed into the VTOL.

As they did, Poet traded places with the PJ, turned 180, and laid down cover fire. He looked down to see a strange yet familiar tattoo on one dead hostile's neck. He pulled the shirt down, and paled as he saw what it was. He ran onto the bird as the crew chief hit the ramp lift. He shivered, not because of the cold rain and wind, and grasped Saturn's arm.

His eyes widened in fear, and his blood loss, both voluntarily and from an untreated abdomen wound made darkness cloud his vision. He gasped out a single word before collapsing.

"**ISI**."


	3. Filler of an Aftermath

As the gaping maw that was the hangar entrance opened, Petty Officer 2nd Class Jazmin "Siren" Way glanced at the now-slowing V-22 Osprey helicopter that was currently touching down while dropping the ramp. Medical personnel rushed towards the bird, as the pair of AH-64 gunships landed in their section of the landing pad. IVs, blood bags, stretchers, and just about everyone who knew more than basic first aid descended upon the helicopter. When the ramp fully descended, a rapid trickle of red blood flowed out, staining the landing pad.

Besides obvious medical equipment, Jazmin saw drastically more somber and grim soldiers rush out, carrying black sleeping bag-esque things. _Not sleeping bags_, her mind corrected, _body bags_. Her wounded teammates were unloaded, along with one of the rescuers who had a ragged piece of shrapnel sticking out of her chest.

One of them she immediately recognized: that youthful Delta operator who served as the medic. He stumbled off the ramp, and attempted to help lift his wounded teammate's stretcher. As a doctor yelled at him, he yelled back, tearing off his headgear. Though she saw him without the mask in the ship, being able to focus clearly now, he was strikingly handsome. A female clone- err, his twin- stepped beside him, equally beautiful.

She seemed to calm him down, because he sighed, before slinging an arm around her, the two walking towards her in the medical wing. She hurriedly busied herself with her previous activity which was... staring out the window daydreaming. Damn.

The two wandered in, as her eyes stayed glued to the limp bodies being shed of gear, before being placed in the body bags. She heard screams and moans of pain echoing in her ears. Tears wet her eyes, as she clamped her ears. She couldn't take it anymore. She spied a scalpel nearby, and glanced at her slightly scarred wrist. Nobody was watching. The guilt and pain of her friends' injuries and death caused her shaking arm to grasp the tool, as she brought to her soft flesh.

Make it stop, make it stop, makeitstop, makeitstop, MAKEITSTOP, MAKEITS-

"Stop," a familiar voice whispered in her ear, as a firm and similarly familiar hand grasped her wrist of the hand that was holding the razor-edged blade. She looked up, and the now-shirtless and bandaged Delta medic was gazing at her with warm brown eyes. She struggled, sniffling; as she tried to make it stop, make the hurting stop.

He sighed, and carefully plucked the tool out of her hand, setting it further away. Jaz whimpered slightly, out of desperation and slightly fear. The medic glanced at her leg, frowning. He reached into a random medical cart tray… thing... and pulled out new bandages.

"Need new bandages," he muttered, slowly taking the others off. They hadn't changed them since he put them on during his emergency first aid administration, for some reason. He peeled the old ones away, revealing dark red/brown stains, and a very close to infected limb.

"Shit," the Delta guy hissed, grabbing antiseptic and a washcloth. Jaz winced and let out a squeak of pain as the germ-killing medicine scorched her leg. Slowly but surely, the old scabs and rotting flesh were cleaned off and the bleeding started again; however, this time it did so in a clean, safe environment.

As the teenage medic finished, he sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He looked tired beyond his years, and Jazmin could swear she saw a small grey spot in his hair.

He flashed her a small, sad smile, along with his right hand. "Name's Johnny," he muttered, weakly shaking her hand. "Jazmin," she responded. He nodded, slipping off her bed and hopping into the one next to her bed.

"Today's been a shit day, huh?" he stated more than asked, staring at the ceiling. She joined him, humming in agreement. The two fell into silence before his twin came back, along with a shirt for him.

Jazmin hadn't noticed it till now, but on Johnny's right arm, there was a strange tattoo. It was... a knight helm, with crossed rifles underneath, a banner reading, "Ad maiorem dei gloriam". On his left, there was another. It was a grinning half-devil, half-skull, with sharp words, "LIVE A SMARTASS, DIE A SMARTASS", on the top and bottom, respectively.

He caught the glance, and explained. "Old high school motto and mascot, and personal motto of Devil Team," he said. Jazmin nodded, somewhat recognizing the knight and motto from somewhere. Her Latin was a bit rusty, but...

"'To the greater glory of God,'" she whispered. She glanced at him, "Christian?" He shook his head, and then nodded. "Baptized Roman Catholic," Johnny started, "but I'm more of an atheist now." He raised a hand before she spoke, "And yes, there ARE atheists in the foxhole." He smirked at her raised eyebrow.

"Bro, we gotta roll," his sister called from the door. He shouted an affirmative back, glancing at Jazmin again. "See ya, mermaid," he called, dashing out the door. She stared at him in slight anger, and told herself the reddening of her face was from that. Right?


End file.
